


look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

by Candybara



Series: the war goes on [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Eventual Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Mental Instability, Other, Past Relationship(s), Reader-Insert, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9201995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candybara/pseuds/Candybara
Summary: The ache of the battlefield has forever been carved into your skin, marred and stained with your own flesh and blood, but the worst pain doesn’t come from bullets or shrapnel. Your pulse doesn’t pound the hardest when you’re ducking behind crumbling walls. Your stomach doesn’t flip the fastest when your hands are shaking as you point and shoot. No, the shadows of death plunge lowest when you’re curled up on the shower floor, the tile around you as wet and slick as the crimson flowing from your veins. You make a conscious effort not to overthink such moments, but sometimes it almost scares you when you realize just how much you thrive off of the bite of honed metal.





	

There’s an impulse lurking in the back of your mind that tells you to take to the blade whenever life hurts a little bit too much, or not quite enough to justify the numbness in your chest. It comes in the form of a coldness that sears you to the very core, crushing your bones into ash and dust in order to drink from the marrow of your melancholy. It weighs like a knife that feels perfect in the palm of your hand, the heft of the handle too familiar under the practiced curl of your fingers. It tastes like a weakness dressed as indulgence, and it’s a disguise you see right through most days but it’s still not enough to keep you from succumbing to the bitterness that blazes down the back of your throat.

The ache of the battlefield has forever been carved into your skin, marred and stained with your own flesh and blood, but the worst pain doesn’t come from bullets or shrapnel. Your pulse doesn’t pound the hardest when you’re ducking behind crumbling walls. Your stomach doesn’t flip the fastest when your hands are shaking as you point and shoot. No, the shadows of death plunge lowest when you’re curled up on the shower floor, the tile around you as wet and slick as the crimson flowing from your veins. You make a conscious effort not to overthink such moments, but sometimes it almost scares you when you realize just how much you thrive off of the bite of honed metal.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and wince just a bit as you drag the sharp edge of a razor along the inside of your forearm, painting yourself a canvas of wounds that don’t hurt nearly as much as they should. It’s supposed to be cathartic, satisfying, but this time you hardly feel anything at all. It’s strange, but somehow you don’t even have to fight to force back the lump in your throat, to stem your tears with willpower alone as blood seeps from the crisscross of fresh cuts down your wrist.

It must be because you aren’t pressing deep enough. Or maybe you are. It’s hard to tell when you have an emitter at your side, bathing you in a pale, yellow glow that slows the spill of your vitality just enough to keep you from bearing the kinds of scars you know you won’t be able to hide later. It’s almost less addicting this way, what with how the biotic field muffles the pain a just-noticeable amount, but it’s a tradeoff you’ll take if it means avoiding a pitiful confrontation from any or all of your comrades-in-arms.

You hardly notice the warmth of the water flowing down your back until the shower head sputters and the spray turns cold, and your body feels so distant, so empty that you think you might as well be a corpse already, but you still arch away from the chill and shiver as the bumps on your skin prickle and rise in protest. It’s your usual sign to stop, not trusting yourself otherwise to keep from shredding your skin to near bits.

The reminder that just about anyone could find you here helps too, and your heart stutters at the thought of it as you rise shakily to your feet. The bathrooms are communal, but it’s past curfew and seemingly no one but you would dare to be out of their quarters this late. You’re known to be reckless, even rebellious at times by everyone from new recruits to commanding officers. You’ve always stood with your head held high, poised, shameless in the way you rise without fear of authority.

You almost feel guilty for passing it off as courage, when really it’s only because you’re haunted by a warped sense of self-preservation. Part of you refuses to give a fuck about what could happen if you were caught, but you still make sure the tile glints pure and clean, leaving behind no trace of the blood you’d spilt time and time again. Your razor is tucked safely away, but you carry the biotic emitter in hand, finding yourself vaguely annoyed that it doesn’t fit in the pocket of your sweatpants.

Your fingers curl unsteadily around the device and you can’t tell if you’re trembling because you’re fatigued or anxious. Probably both, you think as you slink silently through hallway after empty hallway. You know the base like the back of your hand, and you find your quarters without much difficulty even though it’s so dark you can barely see more than a few feet in front of you.

You absentmindedly start to wonder how late it is as you fumble with the pass on your room key, the emitter tucked precariously under your arm. It takes you several tries, but when the lock finally clicks open you feel yourself let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You push the door open slowly, taking care to keep the hinges from creaking. You don’t expect footsteps or the gruff echo of a voice you recognize booming out from behind you.

“Hey!” The fright of it nearly has you leaping out of your skin, a sharp intake of breath seizing your chest with cold, hard dread. You feel like a deer in the headlights, frozen in place even with your body half turned away from the figure rapidly pacing towards you.

“What are you—”

You don’t even register dropping it, but the emitter activates as it hits the ground, and Jack’s gaze flits from the soft halo of light to the shock etched across your face, his demand lost to the sight of your eyes blown wide, pupils dilated, mouth partially agape. He gives you a look that makes your heart crawl into your throat before bending over to disable the biotic field, inspecting the device for just long enough to leave you paralyzed but defiant when he finally fixes a glare back upon you.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, cadet.” You manage a scoff but say nothing as Jack follows you uninvited into your quarters, and he shuts the door behind him but makes it a point to stand in front of the brushed metal, arms crossed, not at all shy of confrontational. It serves the purpose of letting you know that you aren’t going anywhere, and neither is he, until he gets an explanation. You aren’t eager to give one to him.

“Start talking,” he orders, and you grit your teeth in bitter silence, holding out as long as you can before Jack gets tired of it and opens his mouth to force more out of you. You don’t let him get a word out, but you also don’t give him a straight answer.

“What do you want?” You’re being difficult. Jack knows this side of you all too well, and you in turn know it won’t take long for his patience to wear thin. You don’t care.

“This my emitter?” He holds it up for you to see, and you can’t help but notice how small and delicate it looks in his hands.

“Yeah,” you answer, setting your jaw at his tone and trying your best to keep an air of nonchalance about you. Jack’s scowl twitches.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to use it.”

“I never asked.”

Jack’s glower intensifies at that, and it doesn’t intimidate you nearly as much as it should. “So you admit that you stole it, then?”

“ _Borrowed_ , thank you very much.” You can’t keep the sneer off your face even as Jack growls threateningly in response.

“You’d better have a damn good reason for this, cadet.”

You hear a timid voice in the back of your head, telling you that you _do_ have a good reason for it, and that if you were to simply tell Jack the truth, he would forgive you without a second thought. Anyone would. On the other hand, he would also very likely worry himself sick over it, and you don’t think you can handle him fretting over you, not after everything that’s happened.

“With all due respect, _Commander_ , it’s none of your fucking business.” That makes him angry, you know, but you don’t think much of it until he’s storming towards you, his fingers coiling around your wrist the instant he feels your arms come up in a defensive maneuver. The cuts in your flesh are still a bit tender and raw, and you try not to visibly wince at the contact.

“You made it my business when you stole my emitter, cadet,” Jack snarls, and you try to break away from his hold, but even as you struggle he manages to back you into a wall with relative ease. You can’t muffle your cry of discomfort when his grip tightens around your forearm, and Jack stills at your grimace, noting the way your brows are knitted together in pain. Something clicks into place for him, and you feel a thread of ice weave through your veins as his expression grows soft.

“Are you injured?” His fingers loosen, concern evident in the baby blue of his gaze, and you find it hurts more to look directly at him than it does to endure the chafe of fabric against your wounds.

“No,” you lie. To his credit, the man has never once fallen for your lies.

“Let me see.” Jack pins you in place and it’s all you can do to thrash against him, kicking and shoving at his frame as he works to slide the sleeve of your sweatshirt up your arm.

“Get off me!” Your voice almost breaks under the weight of the protest, hating the fact that you can’t even manage to hide your contempt behind a glaring exterior. Jack’s pressed so close to you, his face merely inches from your own as he struggles to keep you from squirming, and against your will you feel your cheeks flush just a bit at the proximity, at the resolve etched into his features.

You almost can’t stand it, the way his long, wispy lashes flutter as he blinks, the way his fingertips brush ever so lightly against your skin when he finally gets your sleeve rolled up to your elbow. It’s frustrating how meek you feel as Jack stares at the fresh cuts on your arm, a pained look replacing what was once an exasperated one. He’d known your scars well, better than anyone else that you’ve dared to let in over the years. He’d seen them countless times, touched them still a thousand more. Yet, he’d never stopped to wonder just how many of them were self-inflicted.

 _Christ, how many times had you done this to yourself_?

“…Why?” He says it so softly you aren’t even sure he’s talking to you at first, and you furrow your brow with uncertainty, finding it hard to put any real bite in your tone when Jack’s looking at you so sadly.

“Why what?”

“Why… this?” Jack frowns, trying to piece together the swarm of thoughts rampaging through his mind. He seems hesitant, confused, even, and you chide yourself for even daring to hope for anything otherwise from him. _Of course he wouldn’t understand_. “Don’t you shed enough blood out in combat? Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself even more?”

You snort, trying once again to yank your wrist away from his hold. “Well, you always did say I was a bit of a masochist.”

Jack’s fist hits the wall by your head and it startles you out of your sardonicism, but not as much as the anger tinting his gaze. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before, but it isn’t a familiar kind of heat. You’re almost, _almost_ frightened by it, but try as you might, you can’t manage to pin him back with a look of insubordination.

“This isn’t a joke, cadet! I’m being serious!” He’s not trying to be quiet, not anymore, and though he’s not exactly yelling his voice feels incredibly loud when he’s pressed so close, meshing your frame between his chest and the cold, cold wall and you _can’t fucking stand it_.

“What does it matter to you anyway?!” You snap, your lip curling as you shove against him hard and grind your heel into the top of his foot. Your skin is starting to crawl with discomfort and you want him _away_ , but if it hurts him at all he bears no sign of it, simply letting you struggle to no avail and you aren’t even sure you don’t hate him at this point.

“It matters because I care about you!” Hardly a second passes before you’re barking out a laugh that can only be interpreted as scornful, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone look so taken aback in your life.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you retort. Jack’s expression softens almost at once, and you can barely read him though he’s undoubtably upset, but there’s so much more than the hurt etched into his frown. You pretend not to notice the deep, dark twinge of regret as he traces your wounds, gently, pulling back when he feels you shy away from his touch.

“This isn’t…” He trails off, but the look on his face finishes the thought for him. _This isn’t because of me, is it?_ You give a huff of annoyance.

“Don’t be stupid, Jack. Not everything revolves around you.”

Jack looks pensive for a moment, and in his silence you feel the tension in the air grow agonizingly heavy. The atmosphere is stifling and you’re slowly finding it harder and harder to breathe as the apprehension of it all builds in the pit of your stomach, because you don’t know how much longer you can handle having to hear the words you don’t want to hear.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Jack says at last, and you can only think that it’s a goddamn miracle you don’t fall apart then and there.

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out thick, shaky, and it gives away the last scraps of energy you’re putting into trying not to tear up. Your heart throbs against your ribs, and the lump in your throat has been there for so long it’s starting to ache, even despite your attempts to swallow it down.

“Believe me when I say I wanted you…” You avert your gaze because that’s all you can do at this point. It hurts too much to look and it hurts too much to listen, but when Jack cups your chin and turns your head back towards him you realize you won’t be able to avoid either of the two. “…So, so much.”

“Mhm.” You give a short nod, pointedly not saying or meaning much, and Jack presses his forehead to your own, briefly. It’s more tender, more intimate, but it’s not exactly better, and you still find yourself wishing that he’d just leave.

“How long?” He asks softly, letting your sleeve slide back down over your forearm before finally granting you the relief of taking a step away. “How long have you been…?”

“…A while,” you answer, your voice strained and your chest tight.

“Does anyone else know?” You think it over for a moment.

“Angela, maybe.” Jack doesn’t look terribly surprised at that, but it seems to put him at ease even if you aren’t exactly sure why you answered truthfully. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. Please.”

Jack looks like he wants to object, but instead he falls into a fleeting, contemplating silence. You bite your lip at stare at the ground, your arms folded over your midriff as you wait and fear for a response. You feel so vulnerable like this, so uncomfortable in so many ways, and it’s even worse knowing how much easier it’d be if Jack were to just give up on you. Then again, you’ve never known Jack to take the easy way out of anything. Well, almost anything.

“Let me help you…” It’s a borderline plea, something born out of desperation, and somehow you think it affects you more than it should.

“You can’t,” you say, bluntly, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to keep the tears from spilling over your cheeks.

“I want you to be okay,” Jack whispers, partly to himself, and you almost wince at the hurt in his tone.

“I’m fine,” you choke out. You know it’s a lie and Jack knows it’s a lie, but he can’t find the words to call you out on it right now. Instead you hear your name, soft on his lips, and he sucks in a shaky breath to clear his head, though he continues to look restless in so many ways. You cast a sidelong glance towards your unmade bed and shift your weight onto your other foot. It must be far too late into the night by this point, but it’s clear that Jack doesn’t want to leave. You hesitate to remind yourself that leaving you was never something he’s wanted.

“I’ll check up on you later,” Jack says, and you clench your jaw but you don’t argue, knowing there’s nothing you can do to make him change his mind. You simply nod and watch him slowly make his way to the door, looking exhausted more than anything else. It kills you when he pauses, hesitation evident in the arch of his shoulders, and sets that damn emitter, _his_ emitter, lightly on your bedside table.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and by the time he leaves your vision is so blurry you can’t even tell how far you’ve fallen until your knees hit the floor, your body wracked with tremors and chills. You clasp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to spill past the edges of your teeth, but instead you nearly suffocate on the cold, dry air that slips through your fingers.

The pain is loud, but you cry quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this classic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tdVAqxNLXiw)


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